The Last Flight Read Online Free PDF Page B

floorboard settling—sends my heart pounding against my chest and a thin sheen of sweat to break out on my forehead. I creep into the hall and listen, holding my breath, trying to hear past the rush of panic flooding through me. But all is silent. After a few minutes I return to the computer, staring at the screen, urging it to go faster.
    But then my eyes fall on Bruce’s notebook again, filled with passwords that would allow me to look into every corner of Rory’s life. His calendars. His email. The Doc. If I had access to that, I’d be able to keep an eye on them. To know what they’re saying about my disappearance, to know if they’re looking for me, and where. I’d be able to stay one step ahead of them.
    With another glance at the empty hallway, I flip through the notebook, back several pages, until I find Rory’s email password, and grab a yellow Post-it Note off Bruce’s desk, copying it just as the computer finishes with the files. The clock in the downstairs entry chimes two, and I pull the thumb drive from the port and slide his computer back into its hiding place. I close the drawer with a small click and replace the red book on the shelf, return Bruce’s notebook to its hiding place, and check the room for any signs that I’ve been there.
    When I’m satisfied, I make my way back to my office. There’s only one thing left to do.
    I slide onto my chair, the leather cold against the backs of my legs, and open my laptop, my Detroit speech still on the screen. I close the window, knowing my icon will disappear from the top of everyone else’s version, and log out of my email. When I’m back to the Gmail homepage, I sit for a minute, letting the silence of the house and the faint ticking of the hall clock wash over me. I take a deep breath and let it out, and then another, trying to steady my nerves. Trying to think through every contingency, every little thing that might go wrong. I glance at the clock again, reminding myself that at two in the morning, no one will be awake. Not Bruce. Not Danielle. Definitely not Rory. For the millionth time, I wish for a smaller house. One where the walls weren’t so solid. Where the carpets didn’t absorb people’s footsteps so well, where I could reassure myself with the sound of Rory’s soft snoring. But he’s two floors above me, and I need to get this done.
    I enter his email address and squint at the Post-it, carefully entering the password. Then I press return. Immediately, Rory’s phone buzzes on the desk next to me, an alert lighting up the screen. Your account has been accessed by a new device. I swipe left to clear it, then turn to my computer, Rory’s inbox in front of me. At the top of a long string of unread messages is the alert. I delete it, quickly toggling over to his trash, and delete it from there too.
    My eyes scan his homepage, looking at the various folders, before clicking over to the Doc. They’ve labeled it Meeting Notes . I open it, holding my breath, wondering what I might find, but it’s empty. Waiting for tomorrow. I imagine myself holed up late at night somewhere in Canada, a silent observer as Rory and Bruce deconstruct my disappearance, trying to figure out what happened. But more than that, I’ll be privy to everything Rory and Bruce say to each other, every conversation they think is private.
    At the top, it reads Last edit made by Bruce Corcoran five hours ago . I click on it, wondering what the edit history might show, and a long list pops up on the right-hand side of the screen. 3:53 Rory Cook added a comment . 3:55 Bruce Corcoran added a comment . But no specifics. My eyes travel down the long list to the bottom of the window, where a box that says Show Changes is unchecked. I hover my cursor over it, tempted, but I leave it unchecked. I’m logged in, and that’s all that matters.
    I click over to my computer settings, where I change my